Khazrael

Khazrael watches the flames as though entranced. After several moments, he extends his left hand, and with his right, he grips the handle of his knife. He lays the blade flat against his left palm and listens to the howls of the burning ghouls.

He speaks aloud in Draconic.

"How many times," he muses, "Will it end like this? How far can we run, and how many will we give over to the cloying dark? A curse on this Sethra, and his Lady Valentine."

He slips the blade of the knife along his palm, and in a single sweeping motion with his left hand, sends a small amount of blood out over the snow. He throws his knife down, embedding the blade in the hard-packed powder. He crouches, places his bloodied palm on the snow, then scoops up his weapon and returns it to his belt.

His bizarre folk curse completed, Khazrael folds his wounded hand into a fist and spits in the snow before turning away.

"So...can we get the hells out of here now? I don't wanna be here when the next horrible thing happens to this place."